A huge-breasted woman was lain on her back, giving birth to a skyscraper, giants with bare-skull faces stalked through poppy fields, the prime minister hung crucified onto Big Ben, while the cabinet, depicted as goblins, swung on his legs. A pair of chimpanzees, with giant erect penises, examined the genitalia of a naked, black girl, who was vomiting bank notes. Having frequently stopped to turn and gasp open-mouthed at Garvie, her reaction was narrow-eyed and loud. ‘It’s absolutely disgusting!’
His art master, who was also following cautiously, swallowed. ‘Lady Warlock. Garvie is supremely talented in the school of the avant-garde, and we’re sure he has a brilliant future. He’s captured the anarchic undercurrent of post-war Britain with brilliant technical ability. The post-modernist movement is ...’
Dulcie Warlock held up her hand, addressing the art master as if he had no knowledge of the art world, or qualification of any kind. ‘This isn’t art, Mr Harrison. I pay the extortionate fees here to have my son educated. To be guided into remedial work that will counteract his deficiencies. Not to spend his time daubing pornography. I’m a volunteer guide at The Ashmolean Museum in Oxford and if you want to see true art then I invite you to accompany me ...’
‘Lady Warlock, let me explain. Postmodernism in contemporary culture is characterised by objective truths and suspicions. It emphasises the relations and motivations of global culture, and the post war backlash of society, such as good against evil and colonial domination. It influences not only art but literary criticism, sociology, architecture and music ...’
‘It’s utter filth! His father was a world famous research scientist, and he would be deeply ashamed to see this hideous display of decadence. How dare you allow him to waste his time on this tripe.’
‘Oh, please, Lady Warlock. Open your mind to Garvie’s talent.’
‘Be quiet! My mind’s made up. I’m withdrawing Garvie from Ripley Court.’ An hour later mother and son drove out of the school gates with the Morris Minor Traveller laden to the gunwales.
Despite the fact that she was still muttering with fury, something very useful had come out of this exercise for Dulcie. Her husband’s death had been a huge financial shock, and it was going to be a serious struggle to find the fees for another two years, anyway. In her own terms she was teetering on the brink of the workhouse, and lately she’d had the awful thought that she might be forced to earn her own living, or throw herself on the state for a handout.
Garvie, sitting scowling beside her, was more than thrilled he’d been yanked out. Apart from his art work everything else on the curriculum (despite his so-called intense therapies) showcased him as an absolute dummy. Hooray to the end of all that. His mother would never grasp that his problems were permanent, and his artistic talents were a great deal more than sticking huge dicks on apes. Freedom from Ripley Court was brilliant, but what other humiliations would the fucking cow make him suffer now?
‘I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life,’ Dulcie puffed out, weaving her way through heavy traffic, and crunching the gears. ‘Lord knows what I’m going to do with you.’
‘I want to study art,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing else I want to do or be any good at.’
‘Well, I haven’t got the funds to indulge you,’ she snapped.
Suddenly, to the sound of loud horns, she yanked the car over to the kerb and turned off the engine. ‘Look, Garvie. I’ve tried to keep the facts from you, but you’ve got to know. Our financial situation is absolutely dire. Your father was earning a very large salary, and once he died it ceased, of course. I got a modest lump sum from a life insurance policy, and the University will pay me a small stipend for life, but I’ve got three years to wait before I get a state pension, and even that will be miniscule. The worse news is that the small print of his private pension stated I had to be over sixty when he died to scoop up anything as his widow, even though he’d paid in a small fortune.’ She sighed deeply and paused for breath. ‘And that’s not all. Tavistock wrote to me a few months ago to say the original lease was nearly up on St. Veep’s, and they offered me the freehold for a bargain price. I mean a real bargain – a quarter of its market value – so I’ve been forced to spend every penny of capital I had on it. It was either that or move out and end up somewhere grim, like Jericho.’
‘Then why can’t I go to the Oxford Art School on the Cowley Road,’ he snapped. ‘It’s free.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing’s free.’
‘The council run it. Of course it’s free.’
‘The council! Well it can’t be very ...you know ...’
‘’You know, what?’
She waved her hand in the air. ‘Well ...up to much.’ She sighed again and made a resigned wrinkled face. ‘I suppose we can look into it.’ But despite a ‘hmmph’ of disdain, and a face of distaste, she was more than keen to investigate.
April 2014
Monks Bottom
With the boys exhausted from Tai Kwon Do, the bedtime pantomime was easier than usual, so after sleepy goodnight kisses I sat down to pour a welcome glass. But my body still fizzed with the Howie scene, and my mind was far too busy to relax. I’d loved every second of it, but I had to make myself promise that, ‘it would never – must never – happen again’. I swigged deeply, and tried to clear my mind (surely something of an oxymoron).
I’d been staring into space for ages, asking myself copious questions about the Angela mystery, when there was a light tap on the doorknocker. A smiling Carrie stood on the doorstep. ‘I had to drop Gerry off at High Wycombe station,’ she said ‘He’s off to a boys jamboree in the West End. Thought I’d swing by and surprise you.’
Her presence only caused me to wobble on the verge of tears again, but she poured herself a drink, and sat down beside me. ‘I’ve actually come to tell you the good news. Well, bad news, really. Gerry’s agreed an asking price of £4.5 million on The Hall with Hyatt Varley, but they said it’s suddenly a seller’s market and we can expect the asking price, or more.’
We looked at each other without comment, both knowing what the other was thinking; that we wanted to scream and shout that it mustn’t be sold, and all we wanted was for life to return to normal.
‘So, what’s going on?’ she said, changing the subject. My only news was to pour out my fruitless Internet search for Angela, and my musings about the original purchase of The Hall.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back to 1972, the year before you were born. Us three were down in Wales with mummy, no idea why, and Pa was definitely up in Oxford on his own. You were born on 15th February ’73, so you had to be conceived around the middle of May ’72. Oh, Sarah, children hate thinking about their parent’s sex lives, but he was very attractive when he was young, wasn’t he. Gorgeous, in fact. I guess he was lonely, and he must have, you know, fancied it, like we all do.’
Yes, we do, I thought. I knew exactly what she was talking about, with the soft skim of Howie’s lips still tingling on mine. ‘So who the hell was Angela?’ I replied, pausing to contemplate. ‘I think I’m going to go with a young girl over from Europe on a working holiday. Possibly a Catholic, accidently up the duff, couldn’t go home with a bundle in tow, and told Pa in a veil of tears when it was far too late for an abortion.’
‘Don’t forget abortion was really difficult in those days, and not the done deal we know today. You had to be mentally unstable, or prove that the baby was a serious threat to your health.’
I shrugged. ‘But I really do want to find her, whoever she turns out to be.’ The wine started talking and I giggled. ‘Bag lady. Nut case. Happily married woman who certainly doesn’t want her secret middle-aged baby turning up out of the blue. God knows where to look, now I’ve exhausted all the on-line lists. Do you think there might be someone from college who knew the story?’
‘I honestly doubt it. Not if she was hidden away in the Folly Farm cottage. And don’t forget he’d just got a really high profile appointment and wouldn’t want any scandalous
gossip to taint his scene. I’ll go for a secret affair too. You were born, goodbye Angela for whatever reason, Mummy and us lot came back, and they moved into Priory with a new baby they managed to pass off as their own. Sounds incredulous, but what else can it be?’
I revolved my neck wearily and stretched out my legs. ‘’Oh, bollocks. Who knows. I’ve had enough for now. Let’s have another drink.’
‘Go on then.’ She held out her glass. ’Just a quick one and I’ll be off.’
September 1968
Bevington House School
Any anxieties that Edie might have transferred to Angela dissolved on the first morning at her new school. There were a great many other girls from ethnic backgrounds, most of them full boarders, ranging from Hong Kong Chinese, to Asians and Caribbeans, and no social divides at all. In fact, on the first morning, with her friend Diana telling everyone about her appearances in the fish finger commercials, her class crowded round at break time to find out if she’d ever met anyone famous. She hadn’t, but they were even more impressed that she was a model for TeenTogs fashions in the Littlewoods mail order catalogue. With Angela knowing that such cheap items of clothing would never be seen in the homes of her affluent classmates, she then became a little snooty herself. ‘I actually wouldn’t be seen dead wearing anything,’ she sneered. ‘They’re so tacky. One wash and they fall apart.’
At the end of the day, and standing on the pavement of Banbury Road, she felt a sharp elbow dig from Diana. ‘Look who’s standing on the corner of Norham Road. It’s ghastly Garvie Warlock.’ Angela hadn’t seen him for some fifteen months, and she’d never have recognised him. Crumbs. He was now a truly stunning sight. Over six foot tall, summer tanned, and with his long blonde hair (was it bleached?) falling past his shoulders, he looked like a Californian surfer. He was sitting on a low brick wall with a crowd of other boys, some wearing the red-piped blazers of Magdalen College School, and others with the formal dark suits of St. Edward’s, but he was the only one wearing mufti; flared jeans and a tight T-shirt printed with The Rolling Stones. ‘He doesn’t go to school,’ Diana hissed. ‘He’s an art student at the Tech in Cowley Road.’
‘Is he still vile?’
‘Oh, he is. He’s appalling, but he’s so witty he makes everyone laugh.’
The group of boys, with their bicycles thrown down on the pavement, were obviously there ‘to see and be seen’ and when Garvie noticed the two girls he stared hard. ‘Shall we go over,’ said Diana. ‘Simon Blackmore’s there and I really fancy him.’ But no. Angela wouldn’t be going over. Catch her being part of a sycophantic gush. She was still deeply in love with a real man who could knock spots off any dumb teenager.
The next morning Diana rushed up with her hands in the pose of a gospel evangelist. ‘He wants to meet you, Angie,’ she babbled.
‘Who wants to meet me?’
‘Garvie, of course! He asked me to bring you over after school today. God, what’s Caro going to say to that!’
‘Whose Caro?’
‘Caroline Blair Lewis. His girlfriend in the Upper Fifth. She’ll go totally bonkers.’ Angela didn’t really care how bonkers this Caroline was going to go, but with an evil thought of oneupmanship she might as well go through the motions and score a trump.
At home time Garvie was in the same place as the day before, standing with the same group of boys. ‘Come on,’ said Diana, grabbing her arm, seemingly anxious to deliver her friend, like a prize, to the oracle. But when they arrived he merely lifted his eyebrows.
‘So. Angela Zendalic. I remember you.’
‘And I remember you. You weren’t very nice to me.’
‘I’m not nice to anyone.’ He held a bland, fixed expression, and had a way of drawling out his words without moving his head. But then a slender girl, with hair like Jane Asher, arrived in a rush, dropping her satchel, barging her way into him, and making claim with a huge show of hugging and neck kissing. Garvie, making no attempt to return the affection, continued to stare at Angela over the girl’s shoulder, to smile and to wink menacingly.
A Mini suddenly pulled up with a loud jerking handbrake, and a very cross woman leaped out. ‘Caroline! Get straight into the car and stop making an exhibition of yourself. And the rest of you can get off home too. Hanging around the streets like a load of yobbos!’ Blushing with humiliation Caroline was ferried away.
‘That mother cow needs a shrink,’ Garvie sighed, ambling off without saying goodbye.
‘I think it’s him that needs the shrink,’ Diana whispered.
Thereafter, even though Garvie was always waiting in the same place at home time, Angela studiously ignored him and walked briskly off towards Jericho.
But one afternoon, just as she was rounding the corner of Observatory Street, she heard the sound of binding bicycle brakes. She glimpsed enough to know it was Garvie, but although she didn’t stop, he followed her at a distance of twenty feet, wheeling his bicycle on foot. At her front door she turned round sharply. ‘Either say what you want to or go away.’
‘Will you come to the cinema with me?’
‘No thank you. You’re rude and conceited.’
She opened the door, went in, and closed it with a petulant little slam, but she was shaking with an emotion she couldn’t understand. No-one in the world was more wonderful than Piers, but Garvie was truly the most glorious looking boy she’d ever seen, and with the thought of trouncing the possessive Caroline, of course she’d wanted to say yes. But yes meant he’d been allowed to get away with his cocky performance and she’d kow-towed to his superiority. She’d never yet been out with a boy, even though there’d been plenty of offers, but if he wanted a date with her he could sharpen up his manners.
May 1969
Jericho
‘Oh, it’s Dr Penney,’ said Edie. ‘Come in. Our Angela’s not here. She’s up at Iffley watching the rowing regatta with her friend Diana.’
‘Yes, I know. They told me they were going. It’s why I’ve come, actually. There’s something I want to discuss with you alone.’ He was shown into the front room, and declined Edie’s offer of a cup of tea. ‘Very kind of you, but I’ll be brief. It’s about Angela’s future.’
Edie sighed. ‘Oh, dear. Not more bother.’
‘No bother at all, Mrs Zendalic. It’s just that I’ve nurtured Angela’s voice for over four years now. I’ve always known it was rare and special, but it’s developing into a quite marvellous quality. I would go so far as to say she’s gifted, and I suggest that her education is steered towards trying for a scholarship at The Royal Music Institution. My choice would be for her to major in Baroque and Renaissance music.’
‘So what would that mean?’
‘It would mean serious academic study. After her ‘O’ levels next summer she must select three specialist subjects for her ‘A’s. Music of course, the history of the Middle Ages and one other, possibly Latin. I’d also suggest she become familiar with playing the lute. With her background she’d soon become proficient, and I know an excellent lutenist.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Dr Penney. She’s become really stage-struck, and I’m not sure she’ll want to go down that route.’
‘I must admit it’ll mean giving up her ...can I be quite honest ...her fun things like modelling and the TV commercials. And she tells me she’s now the lead singer in some sort of girl pop group.’
Edie chuckled. ‘They call themselves the SuperStars. She and two other girls, a pair of sisters, have set themselves up to be like those girl groups – you know, The Ronettes and The Supremes. They’re ever so good. Sound just like the real thing. The other two have to wear wigs, of course. We were in fits ...’
‘Mrs Zendalic, you might think that any type of singing would be encouraged, but the throat tension of pop music might have lasting damage on her vocal cords. I’m trying to suggest her focus is on a classical career. She’s got a truly outstanding voice but there’ll still be immense competition and she’ll have to knuckle down without
distraction.’
Edie puffed out with a snap of irritation. ‘We only took her out of Milham because they were being snotty about her acting and stuff, and now you come along five minutes later and say the same thing. So if she gets into this fancy college, what then?’
‘She’ll take a degree, and be able to pursue a career as a classical singer. Possibly of world class standard.’
Edie sighed loudly. ‘Do you know, Dr Penney, our Brenda left Barnie school at fourteen. She served in Boots the Chemists for a bit, did war work in a laundry, and got married. All we get with Angela is anxiety, and it’s wearing me out. If we pitch in she’s bound to think we’re trying to stop her enjoying herself. We had the phone put in a few weeks ago, and you wouldn’t believe how often it rings for her. Mostly lads. Invitations to parties and that.’
‘I take it she doesn’t have a particular boyfriend yet.’
‘At fifteen! Certainly not. She knows we wouldn’t allow it. Look, my hubby isn’t here, and we normally talk everything over with her Auntie Peg and Uncle Ted, but on this occasion I’m going to put my foot down. Let her settle into Bevington properly, and we’ll talk about it again at the end of the year. I’m sorry, Dr Penney, but that’s my final word for now. And can we keep this conversation to ourselves, please.’
November 1969
The Ritz Cinema, Oxford
The film Women in Love had been received, with universal praise, by critics and audiences alike: “Women in Love explores the hearts, minds, personalities and philosophies of four intelligent and educated young people at the beginning of the 20th century. A powerful story of friendship, love and desire.”
Vague stories had filtered down to Angela and Diana about D.H Lawrence, as the author of a notorious book called Lady Chatterley’s Lover. General whispers were that he was ‘a mucky writer’, and his works were definitely not on the English curriculum at Bevington House. Thus, they’d come out of the cinema quite stunned by the impact of the film. With (like most people) only honing in on the awesome gossip about the male nude wrestling scenes, they’d been expecting a bawdy, fun-packed adventure, similar to the film Tom Jones that had recently come round again to The Scala on Walton Street. For Angela, her anticipation had been immense. At last she’d be able to see the male genitalia in all its full frontal glory; a subject to which she’d given much thought lately. But she was more than disappointed that Alan Bates and Oliver Reed were moving far too fast to get a really good look at the objects in question, further thwarted by the only light coming from a flickering fire.
Who Was Angela Zendalic Page 13
